


rock & roll, baby, c'mon

by desperheaux



Category: Dreamcatcher (Korea Band)
Genre: (except nothing explicit whatsoever besides gahyeon's and sua's sailor mouths), Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Bad Rock Band Jokes as Plot Devices, F/F, Humor, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26874664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desperheaux/pseuds/desperheaux
Summary: She doesn’t have to look to feel Sua's steady presence, or her gaze as intense as the fire that burns through Siyeon’s blood.The break, the moment of silence, the tension yearning to snap, and then—Rock n' roll, baby.
Relationships: Han Dong | Handong/Lee Yubin | Dami, Kim Bora | SuA/Lee Siyeon, Kim Dahyun/Lee Gahyeon, Kim Minji | JiU/Kim Yoohyeon
Comments: 34
Kudos: 116





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> to the best of my research in this tag, there is still no trashy, long-winded touring rock band au full of unnecessary clichés and inter-band drama and infuriating sapphic yearning. which I thought was appalling, because the inspiration for DC fics is literally a group with a rock sound/aesthetic, so... I will be the change I want to see in the world. I don't write. oh boy.
> 
> the alternate, edgy title from a Warlock song: love, don't wanna fade without
> 
> hope even one person enjoys reading as much as I enjoy writing this!

Fire.

Siyeon is fire.

Her skin burns under the spotlight. A single bead of sweat drips down her forehead, and she swipes at it before it can go any further. Before it can obscure her vision. Nothing in this moment will prevent her from seeing the fire for herself.

It manifests in an electrical current between her and the audience. The stage is but a conduit, and the hundreds of blurred faces receive the energy and shout it back just as powerfully. Phone recording lights flash before her just as hot as the stage lights above. She breathes in. Glares out. Sends another wave of energy reverberating from her lips and through the mic and around the concert hall. And for a moment suspended in time, like a break of utter silence before every instrument bursts triumphantly back onto the downbeat, nothing exists but the fire in her veins.

Her hands burn as they grip the microphone stand, as they point aimless but exultant and always upwards. There is fire in her feet too, in the vibrations that shake the floor and keep her grounded. And there is fire in her chest that pours out molten through the speakers. She pours and pours until the flames threaten to singe her throat. Until she is sure she won’t be consumed from the inside out.

Then, the screams of the crowd. White noise of adulation, of a gathering of strangers sharing a secret language for one night. The world comes back to her at the hazy sight of all of these people jumping and singing right along with her. And then, even they fade. The world and its people come back to her, but she comes back to _her_ people, the six who share her dream, the ones who stand in the flames beside her. She steals glances. Lets herself fall back and be caught.

Almost in the shadowy wings stage left, Handong has one hand on a keyboard and the other adjusting knobs on a soundboard, one headphone muff on and one slipped behind her ear. Flitting next to her, Gahyeon gestures as quietly as she can, pleading her case to use a melodica for her improv solo in the next song. Across stage behind Siyeon’s right shoulder, Dami sends the youngest a cool warning look as she plucks at her bass, imperturbable as always. Siyeon bites back a laugh.

Farther up stage, to her immediate left: Yoohyeon is flushed with determination as her fingers fly over her fretboard; balancing her to Siyeon’s immediate right: Jiu weaves in a second line of chords with a seamlessness that makes their guitar duo shine. The two of them lock eyes behind Siyeon, equally disheveled heads bobbing to the music. Yoohyeon grimaces in concentration; Jiu flashes her a gentle smile. They nod in sync, and make it work.

And Siyeon doesn’t have to turn all the way around to see Sua. Directly behind her, the heartbeat at the centre and back; while everyone else has some mobility around the piles of cords and amps on stage, Sua is always rooted there, keeping Siyeon’s pulse beating along to the rhythm. She doesn’t have to look to feel her steady presence, or her gaze as intense as the fire that burns through Siyeon’s blood.

The break, the moment of silence, the tension yearning to snap, and then—

Everything crashes back together, a perfect explosion of sound.

Siyeon can’t help it, then. She grins. Everyone hears it. Everyone hears her.

Right now, in this perfect explosion of a moment, the world is this stage. Siyeon stands at the forefront of it, under the heat of the lights. On fire, right here. Perfectly at home at the top of the world.

She burns, and she sings.


	2. End of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Organizing stages, booking gigs, fighting tooth and nail for the cheapest deals on hotels and transportation; Handong has experienced all of the headaches that come with being Dreamcatcher’s official manager, not including those that come with her plethora of unofficial roles, too.
> 
> The worst, by far, is trying to corral them after a concert has finished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by Friday Pilots Club. chapter titles will be vaguely related to the contents of the chapter, but mostly just approximately-rock songs that I like :p

Organizing stages, booking gigs, fighting tooth and nail for the cheapest deals on hotels and transportation; Handong has experienced all of the headaches that come with being Dreamcatcher’s official manager, not including those that come with her plethora of unofficial roles, too.

The worst, by far, is trying to corral them after a concert has finished.

The before is easy. Everyone does their own unique pre-performance rituals, whether it be Siyeon belting scales in a corner or Yoohyeon’s intricate routine involving her lucky pick and Dami’s shoelaces, but they always make it a point to gather together just before showtime. Clumped in a messy circle just out of sight in the wings, the seven of them take sips of beer or water and make casual conversation over the restless cheers right outside the curtains. Then a harried staff member motions to them with a clipboard, cups are set down and in-ears are hooked up, and then they’re strutting on stage and into a whole other set of wonderful headaches for Handong.

That ritual is an unspoken group agreement. What is an _actual_ written group agreement is to have a post-performance debrief immediately following stage clean-up. This almost never happens. It is true to form; the other rules on the written agreement, such as the 1AM curfew on concert nights or the outlawing of mic stand jousting tournaments, were respected for about a week before they were broken.

Dreamcatcher has done this enough that there are no more exhausted, happy tears in the back alley of a seedy bar, after the only gig they could get in months ended in a smattering of polite, drunken applause. Now there are hundreds in roaring crowds, now the stages are large enough to _move_ on, and now there is a thrumming, electric high that makes each of them disperse immediately after the lights go up to expel the excess energy in their own ways. They hi-five and whoop and congratulate each other on a job well done, yes; they tackle each other in hugs and headlocks yelling about particular highlights or instances of perfect chemistry, sure.

They celebrate with each other and the rest of their extended crew family just fine.

They just don’t come down together anymore.

Handong gets this. Things change, rules are meant to be broken, and for some reason they’ve always just been better at the unspoken stuff. It is true to form, but it is also _irritating._

She almost can’t believe her luck when she finds more than one member in the same place half an hour after the concert’s end. Peeking into the wide dressing room, she sees Jiu perched on a counter, watching Sua fix her makeup in the mirror next to her. Touching it up, not wiping it down.

Handong narrows her eyes and enters, about to question her, when Jiu beats her to it.

“Got plans tonight, Sua?”

The drummer makes a half-assed attempt at smoothing her tousled hair down, and hums out, “Yep.”

“Care to share?” Jiu presses, but in that easy-going, no-pressure sort of way only she can pull off. Handong is reminded that, while she might be the manager, Jiu has always been the unofficial leader, and for good reason.

“I’m going to get wasted, and look good doing it,” Sua announces, flippant yet firm. While Jiu has a way of talking that encourages reciprocation, Sua tends to speak like everything she says is already written in stone.

Jiu frowns. “Be responsible, yeah?”

“And people think _I’m_ the mom of the group.” Sua snorts and rolls her eyes conspiratorially over at Handong in the mirror. Handong merely arches an unimpressed eyebrow. Sua huffs, betrayed.

“I’m serious,” Jiu kicks towards her playfully, “what would we do if our one and only Queen Sua got alcohol poisoning before the next show?”

She gets a scoff in response.

“The kid’s always putting her mitts on my drumset without permission. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to fill in.”

Handong considers supporting Jiu’s cautions, but pauses. Their schedule is always lingering in color-coded clarity at the forefront of her mind, and a quick reference shows that the team will be doing nothing but traveling all of tomorrow.

Sua makes her lips pop, bold red tint thoroughly reapplied. “And hey, I am a drummer. If I play loud enough, it drowns out the hangover headache.”

Jiu blinks. “I don’t know if it works like that.”

“Oh trust me,” a trademark smirk, “it does.” Sua glances over at them both through the mirror. “You hoes coming with or what?”

Handong shakes her head. Jiu looks tempted almost on instinct, since she’s let Siyeon and Sua drag her out for misadventures so often over the years that she’s even become an instigator of some of them, but she too shakes her head. It might just be the light’s glare against the mirror, but Sua’s face appears to fall for one brief moment. She straightens, and it’s gone.

And then she’s off with a kiss blown to Jiu, who sighs, and a wink towards Handong, who continues to be unimpressed. She snags a worn leather jacket off of a chair on her way out, and shimmies into it with exaggerated sexiness as she makes her exit.

The dressing room sags in relief. Sua carries hot tension wherever she goes, which is great for kicking up energy on stage, and not so great for the vanity mirrors if she decides to start yelling.

“She better be on that bus ten minutes early tomorrow, hangover or not,” Handong grumbles and crosses her arms.

Jiu chuckles. “She’ll be fine. You know she’s always responsible when it comes to the team.”

“It’s not so much the team I’m worried about, as it is her liver,” Handong says dryly.

“Whose liver?”

In walks their lead singer, looking much gentler than her imposing stage persona in just a white tee and sweatpants, heavy mascara mostly wiped off. Her eyes sweep the room distractedly, but she pauses to fix Handong with an impressed grin.

“Oh, Handong, I forgot to ask this earlier when we were packing up, but how the hell did you hook up Gahyeon’s melodica to the speakers?”

Handong remembers that particular headache, with Gahyeon begging directly into her ear while she tried to balance out Yoohyeon’s squealies with Siyeon’s mic reverb.

“With a lot of patience,” Handong says, casting herself a pained look through the mirror Sua had just occupied.

“Sua’s liver, by the way,” Jiu thankfully interrupts her spiral into disassociation with a knowing glance. “And if you’re looking for your jacket, she took it.”

“Of course she did,” Siyeon groans exasperatedly, but there’s a telling upwards quirk to the corner of her mouth. “I was just gonna go say hi to some fans. The wind’s a bitch right now, though.”

“You can use mine,” Jiu offers, nodding vaguely at the odd articles of clothing still strewn around, that Handong will _not_ be picking up and sorting for them. The performers know each other front and back, though, to the point where they can identify with just a glance which clothes technically belong to which person; sure enough, Siyeon easily plucks Jiu’s black overcoat, the same one Yoohyeon had been wearing yesterday, from the mess.

“Thanks. You don’t need it?” Siyeon asks, double-checking before she passes the threshold.

Jiu waves a dismissive hand. “I’m not going out tonight.”

“You’re not?” Speaking of: Yoohyeon pops her head in around the doorframe curiously. Siyeon reaches up to pat her like a puppy as she passes, and Handong internally sighs at the almost comical way one woman appears only for another to leave. She supposes the elusive debrief will not be happening this night, either.

“Nope,” Jiu says, “I’m gonna stay here a while. Don’t really feel like moving yet, you know?”

She says it casually, and it could imply a number of things ranging from sentimentality to pure sloth. Handong almost takes it at face value, but Yoohyeon is looking at Jiu a bit confusedly, a bit concernedly. And Yoohyeon is always looking at Jiu, and as such is always attuned to the minute details to her expression, so Handong looks too.

Jiu swings her feet almost childishly beneath the edge of the counter, and taps the fingers of one hand in an upbeat rhythm like she still has energy to burn off. Yet she remains sitting here, instead of heading out to pose for pictures with Siyeon or to terrorize the town with Sua, like she normally would. Handong blinks, and like phantom glare on a mirror, she thinks she might have seen Jiu’s bright smile twitch away for one half beat.

“I’ll stay with you, then,” Yoohyeon decides. “I was going to ask about that riff you did towards the end of the first set, in Scream, I think?” Her eager smile and messy silver bangs make her resemble a puppy all the more. She clumsily hops up on a counter opposite Jiu, whose face is as warm and open as it always is.

Everything is normal. Handong figures the dressing room’s light bulbs just need changing. Recognizing that the two guitarists, like they usually do, will soon be caught up discussing whatever magic it is that makes their duo so synergized, she takes her leave. At the very least, she can ascertain the whereabouts of the rest of the team, and then head back to the hotel with peace of mind — relative, of course; she hasn’t forgotten which six chaotic women she’s dealing with.

She checks out back for the last two members, pausing her mission to help a couple of the roadies shove instrument cases into the bottom of the tour bus, and finally runs into one of them on her second lap backstage.

“And where are you headed?”

Gahyeon skids to a stop in her sneakers, actually sliding on the floor and wheeling her arms for balance. Handong has a hand already held out, anticipating this. It’s not that Gahyeon is clumsy by nature, like Yoohyeon. It’s just that she likes to make her presence known. This translates more often than not to dramatic entrances and very loud, very uncensored words.

“Dongie, hey!” Gahyeon nearly shouts as she grabs onto Handong’s arm and spins herself to face her with a wide grin, one that always borders on mischief. “I’m on my way to infiltrate Siyeon’s impromptu autograph give-away. And by that I mean disguise myself as a passerby and watch her struggle for a bit before I decide to save her from rabid fans.”

Handong figures there are worse things she could do. “Don’t have too much fun at her expense. Have you seen Dami recently?”

Gahyeon screws up her ever-expressive face in thought. Not for the first time, Handong thinks that Gahyeon would do well in musical theatre.

“Ah, yeah!” She snaps her fingers. “I saw her heading out with that one groupie… Somi? Minso? ...wow, she’s been to all of our concerts since Amsterdam,” Gahyeon realizes with an impressed eyebrow raise, “which makes sense. Yubin’s been more distracted before rehearsals lately. Wild. Maybe she has a thing for her. I mean obviously she does, but maybe a more-than-just-hooking-up thing.”

Gahyeon and her loud, uncensored words. Dami and her inscrutable gaze and air of quiet mystery, something all the ladies apparently love.

Handong grunts. Yes, there are worse things she could do.

“...You don’t like it, do you.” Gahyeon peers up at her, suspiciously sympathetic. And then she asks, as if it’s this simple: “Why don’t you let her know?”

Another rule on the written list: Bandmates will not get involved with anyone on tour. Handong supposes this one was broken before it could even be enacted. In a way, it’s impossible for some of them _not_ to be involved with each other.

Now, the other, unspoken rulebreakers?

“It’s not my place,” Handong intones.

Gahyeon looks confused. “You’re literally the manager, though? And the agent? And publicist, I guess, and PR, and basically sound lead since Leez got the flu and dropped out, and lights—”

“Speaking of lights,” Handong interrupts. “Chaeyoung was looking for you. Something about a broken snoot?”

Immediately, Gahyeon pales, previous train of thought forgotten. “Listen, why the hell would they call it a top hat if they didn’t want me to wear it like one?”

“Hey, there she is!”

Gahyeon catches sight of a member of the lights crew behind the curtains stage left, cries out an “oh, shit,” and books it.

Handong sighs, out of relief or consternation, she can’t be sure. As she makes her way on tired feet over to drag Siyeon away from her fortieth request for a selfie, she acknowledges that Gahyeon probably has a point. She normally does, even though most of the others still treat her like a kid who doesn’t know better.

With all of Handong’s unofficial duties comes the stress of both the written and the unspoken rules. She is intimately familiar with Dreamcatcher on stage and behind it. She knows a leader figure from a bosom friend, a fierce stage persona from a softie who loves cuddles, even a Dami who sneaks off with a groupie post-concert from a Yubin who smiles small over a soundboard and a cup of tea.

She has her roles. It’s not her place.

But if it’s not her place, a small part of her wonders, where is?


	3. Heat Seeker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It could be worse. Bora forces herself to remember this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by DREAMERS and grandson

Tour buses for rock bands are a mini portable purgatory on an endless stretch of road. Forget a highway to hell; the bus itself is a portal directly to Satan’s asshole.

To be fair, it could be a lot worse. They could have a crew entirely made up of men who never learned basic hygiene or how to pick up after themselves. Or they could be where they were six years ago, crammed into a rickety van between second-hand instruments and Yoohyeon’s sharp elbows, one more flat tire away from giving up on their dream.

“What did Jiu say about badminton in the bus?”

“I dunno, wasn’t paying attention. Too busy absolutely _crushing_ the competition. Ha! Twelve to seven!”

“And are those _electric fly swatters?_ ”

“Minji’s fault for tossing out the actual racquets. Thirteen, seven! You gotta dive for those, Eunbin!”

It could be worse. Bora forces herself to remember this.

She squeezes her eyes shut tighter, as if this will help drown out the noise around her. Normally, she would encourage the chaos. Instigate it. Thrive in it. Just not now, with a bitch of a hangover only made worse by the ‘I told you so’ glances she can just feel from Handong and Minji whenever she groans in annoyance.

It was those imagined, no-fun faces that drove her to take that tenth shot of Espolòn, scowling; they were also what motivated her to drag herself out of bed even before Yubin, her early-bird hotel room buddy for the night, in order to freshen up and clamber on the bus like her head wasn’t trying to pound out of her skull.

But two hours into the drive, and the tequila regret gods still won’t relieve her of the jackhammer drilling away in her dome. She blearily forces her eyes open, glad that the window curtain beside her remains drawn closed to the late morning sun, and assesses her surroundings.

When she boarded, she opted for a seat in the booth up front because it showed the most promise of reprieve. Across from her still sits Yubin: nose in a book, ears covered by headphones, and back to the rest of the bus. Bora remembers the bulky Bose headphones as one of the first purchases made when Yubin got her money. It miffed her back then, but now, Bora gets it. She glares in envy at the noise cancelling tech. Yubin turns a page, unbothered. Bora resists the urge to growl, because the bassist at least is dependably quiet.

The front of the bus is normally the quietest ring of hell, but Chaeyoung is driving today, and she always likes to have the TV on behind her; Handong is on the couch across from Yubin and Bora’s table, alternating between clacking furiously away at her laptop and dispassionately trying to get Gahyeon to be still; Gahyeon screeches and dives nearly onto their tabletop to swat at a stray badminton birdie, narrowly missing Bora’s head, and Bora kind of wishes she had actually hit her and knocked her out. Yubin merely lifts her hardback higher to protect her own face, and damn, maybe Bora needs to start taking leaves out of their bassist’s ever-present book.

The urge to growl, and not in a deathmetal way, comes over her again. And that’s what really annoys her to the point of a simmering anger. It doesn’t matter if she’s Sua or Bora, she is the one who carries fire in her very essence, the one whose blazing presence is felt a mile away. That’s why fans call her the Queen. If she wants something, she gets it; not because she is owed it by title alone, but because she fights, vicious and unyielding, to the death for it. So the real hell for her isn't actually the cramped tour bus full of unfortunately identifiable farts and persistent buzzsaw snores: it’s the fact that something as small yet intangibly unfightable as a headache renders her so unlike herself. Makes her feel so _weak._

She shuts her eyes again for one brief moment of collection, and then jumps up from her seat and snatches the makeshift racquet right out of Gahyeon’s hands. Even she feels how loose her normally sharp and strong actions are.

“These are supposed to kill annoying pests, and I _will_ use it for its intended purpose if you don’t knock it off, kid,” she threatens anyway, pressing the button on the bright yellow handle to make the voltage spark.

Gahyeon sizes her up, sees the emptiness of the threat in her hungover posture, and snatches it right back.

“Hey, great idea. Eunbin, press the button when you hit! I wanna see if the birdie will catch on fire!”

Bora gives up and turns to Handong, who types determinedly on, as if murder and arson weren’t both just suggested in front of her.

“You just gonna let her electrocute the bus?”

“Not my job,” Handong sniffs haughtily, smoothing her bright orange twin braids with one hand. “Jiu’s the one who prevents the fires; I put them out when they happen anyway.”

Which, as the main spark to most of said fires, Bora can’t deny is true. She turns to Minji next, but their resident mediator isn't there. She hasn’t heard Minji at all since they boarded, actually, and she’s heard every single noise from every other team member the whole morning, in excruciating surround-sound quality.

Minji is the only one who can put a pause in Gahyeon’s chaotic antics. This is a fact that Bora used to loathe but has come to respect: Everyone listens to Minji, simply because she’s Minji. Endowed with inhuman patience and an astounding sunny disposition, it is rare for the band’s leader to ever lose her temper or optimism. It’s almost scary, when she shows even the slightest hint of irritability or uncertainty. Kind of like if Yoohyeon were to not trip on at least one thing per day, or if Bora were to lose her voice. If Minji were to be upset, the universe would fall terribly out of alignment.

Bora is probably the only person to have ever seen Minji really, truly angry.

She shakes her head. It does nothing to clear the painful fog.

“I’m going to the back. If so much as a breeze hits me, you’re getting thrown out the window.” Bora shoulders past Gahyeon, who appears to be calculating her odds with the narrow walkway and her partner’s likelihood of successfully returning a serve.

“Hey Chaeyoung, how fast are we going?” Gahyeon calls questioningly, arms positioned to take a shot.

“About seventy,” the lights tech and designated driver of the day reports over her shoulder.

Gahyeon nods, and retracts her arms. “Time out!”

“You said there weren’t time outs!” The other roadie down the hall protests.

“Listen, I’m all for living fast and dying young, but defenestration onto a freeway is _not_ the way I wanna go out. Let the elderly pass!”

At any other time, Bora would already have her youngest bandmate in a headlock, and they would both be yelling so loudly that even Yubin’s special headphones wouldn’t be able to save her. Now she slouches down the walkway and tries not to wince as the racquets make contact with the birdie and whatever else gets in the way, each _thwock!_ now accompanied by a short electrical zapping sound. Her foggy mind focuses on her mission: Find Minji. Make her end this suffering. And next time don’t drink fucking tequila.

Correction: Next time, don’t let your friends be fucking _boring._ She wouldn’t be suffering like this if Minji had come along and cut her off at a boring six shots, like she normally does. Sharing post-performance drinks with her bandmates is one of Bora’s favourite pastimes. In her current state of mind, she can’t really remember when that stopped being a thing.

The back of the bus has a few people lounging around and viciously tapping at their phone screens. She scans them listlessly, almost ready to be glad for their focused hush, when Yoohyeon suddenly lets out a loud whoop. Bora winces once at the sound, and then again when the long-limbed woman throws her arms up in victory and hits her hand painfully on the wall. Even this amusing sight isn't enough to bring Bora out of her stormy gloom, as the ones playing the mobile game erupt into arguments about stats, and as from behind Gahyeon starts to time her volleys with a cackling rendition of: _“We didn’t start the fire…”_

Bora takes a breath. Find Minji. If not in the bathroom, she has to be in one of the stacked wall beds. There aren’t many places you can hide here in Dreamcatcher’s hell on wheels.

Only two of the curtains are drawn closed, and one of them is her own claimed bunk in the very top righthand corner. No one else really has a designated bed, since the times they do have to sleep in the bus, they’re all far too exhausted to care about where they drop their heads. But Bora always gets what she wants. That’s what she lets herself believe, anyway.

She yanks open the curtain to the other bunk, prepared to glower at Minji innocently ignoring the head-splitting chaos around her. To her surprise, the guitarist is actually asleep. On her side and facing the wall, her body is oddly hunched inwards compared to the ungraceful, sprawled out form she normally sleeps in, one that Bora has been familiar with since middle school sleepovers. Maybe she’s having a leader-psychic stress dream about the bus burning down, or something. Bora never usually hesitates, but here she does, one hand still on the curtain, wondering if she should reach out and shake her awake.

Something softly pokes the back of her head. Startled, Bora turns and looks up to find Siyeon in Bora’s own bunk, peeking out curiously from behind the curtain.

She doesn’t say anything, but her expression asks what’s up. Her hand retracts but she continues to blink down at Bora, almost owlish with a familiar dark hoodie pulled tight around her face. Blonde wisps of her hair peek out from underneath. Owlish, maybe, or just soft. They all look softer, out from under the harsh stage lights and bold makeup. Siyeon especially.

Bora scowls the thought away, huffs: “Tequila regret gods. Gahyeon.” Which isn't much in the way of an explanation, but Siyeon’s lips quirk up like she understands. And she probably does. Because she is Siyeon and Bora is Bora, and they’ve always gotten each other like that.

“That’s not your bed,” Siyeon points out, voice soft at the sight of Minji sleeping. Which Bora kind of frowns at because even though the noise is killing her, she kind of loves hearing Siyeon’s voice. Which doesn’t make her special, because hundreds of thousands of people also love hearing Siyeon’s voice. Still, she has already slid Minji’s curtain back in place and is climbing up so she can hear Siyeon better, and Siyeon already has a hand extended again to help her up.

“Yeah, well mine is occupied, apparently.” Bora takes it and uses the momentum to slowly roll right over the body it is attached to, so she is squished into the wall and the farthest distance from the outside noise as possible.

“Occupy it with me. I’m just writing songs,” Siyeon suggests with a shrug as if she’s used to being crushed under Bora’s entire body weight. She fishes under Bora’s pillow for a moment, and produces a pair of nearly forgotten earplugs. Useful against snores; necessary for when Bora plays and she doesn’t feel like going completely deaf that day; an absolute lifesaver right now.

“God, I fucking love you,” she groans, and wedges them into her ears before she has to hear Yoohyeon accuse Yeeun of hacking for the tenth time. As such, she doesn’t hear if Siyeon responds. Instead she spies a soft something pull the corners of her mouth up again, highlighted in the small filter of light allowed into their little realm so Siyeon can see her notebook. Siyeon returns to a slouch against the wall, the top of her hoodie pressed against the ceiling. Bora’s hoodie, actually. Its original owner rolls her eyes fondly and presses her face into it to hide from the remaining sliver of light.

Like this, she doesn’t get to hear Siyeon’s voice, but a gentle hand runs absentmindedly through the tangles in her hair whenever it’s not scribbling ideas down. And yes, Siyeon is normally the clingy one behind the scenes, but Bora’s rough-love code of conduct has been hampered by her hungover haze, so she lets herself snuggle closer into the soothing touch. She breathes in slow. Taps a rhythm in slow threes against Siyeon’s thigh, until the pounding in her head becomes less of a nuisance and more of a steady, grounding pulse.

It might be nearing afternoon, but shit, Minji went back to sleep, there’s still hours left to go before the next city, and Siyeon climbed into her bunk to write songs.

It probably doesn’t mean much of anything, considering, but it’s enough for Bora to close her eyes and drift away into a warmth that doesn’t feel anything like the heat of a personal hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to introduce each of the main characters in a chapter first, so it'll pick up soon!


	4. Somebody to Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angles, lighting, timing; Yoohyeon has obsessively monitored enough recordings of her own performances to know that cameras never exactly capture what was played out live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by Jefferson Airplane

Yoohyeon, believe it or not, handles long bus rides the worst. One might think it would be Sua, who absolutely _loathes_ being restrained in any way, or poor stagehand Yehana, who still hasn’t gotten over her car sickness a month into the tour. But no.

Yoohyeon, as much as she hates to agree with her type-casting, has the disposition of a puppy. Lovable and loyal, definitely, and doggedly determined when she has her mind set on accomplishing something.

But also restlessly skittish, especially when everyone else has gotten in one of those unspoken, unanimous winding-down moods (for which Yoohyeon is the only one who never gets the memo, apparently). Like right now: all of her game-mates have taken to scrolling other apps silently on their phones. At the front of the bus, Gahyeon has finally zonked out, face plastered onto the meticulously ordered notes set to Handong’s side. Even the trio of terror has been quiet this whole time, which is highly uncharacteristic; Siyeon and Minji made a beeline straight to the bunks as soon as they boarded this morning, and even Sua joined them about an hour ago.

The only sound now is low murmurs from the mini television behind the driver’s seat, and the perpetual clickety-clack of Handong’s laptop keyboard. Soft white noise. Such a contrast to the electric strains of pure ecstasy that Yoohyeon hears even in her sleep, the explosive echoes of a state-of-the-art Meyer sound system always in the back of her head.

She can’t practice here. The bus is on the move, taking them to their next venue, but _Yoohyeon_ isn't moving. She shifts her arms awkwardly, not knowing what to do with them.

On stage is easy. There’s always things to do, music to feel, more to give. Her long limbs have the space to move, she feels _right,_ like she’s actually putting something out into the world and getting rewarded with the acknowledgment of her meager presence, for one night, for one perfected improv solo.

In comparison to the open field that is the stage, the bus is a cage of frightful unproductivity.

Yoohyeon’s leg bounces up and down.

Now even Handong has finished making noise, all of her work, save the notes plastered to Gahyeon’s drooling mouth, slid into a tote bag and set aside. Yoohyeon adopts the strangest pose to lean over and peer down towards that end of the bus, all of her lanky limbs bent spider-like, but even then all of the roadies sitting near her are used to the band’s weird antics by now. They pay her no mind. Yoohyeon stretches even further and squints, pouting as Handong pulls out her phone and begins her own mindless scrolling.

Briefly, she considers plopping down in front of Yubin (since as a general law of being her other half, the bassist always takes the time to humor her), but Yubin’s been stuck on the same book since Amsterdam. And even though Yubin holds all of the patience between the two of them, Yoohyeon figures she has to be at least a _little_ irritated with her lack of progress. Both of them share that inner drive to always be creating, teaching themselves, _doing something_ — Yubin’s just manifests in activities that are a lot calmer and, frankly, better done alone.

Yoohyeon sighs woefully. With Herculean effort, she tucks her elbows and heels back into a proper sitting position, and slumps back into her seat.

Her leg goes back to bouncing.

Usually Minji eases her out of her nervous tics with a gentle hand on her knee or wrist. It’s an unconscious habit that they both carry on, from when they shared group desks in high school and classmates would glare at Yoohyeon’s frantic pencil-tapping fingers or table-shaking knee bounces.

(Minji’s curtain is drawn shut today.)

Without the familiar chorus of someone trying to burn the bus down or the interludes of someone trying to stop them, everything feels suffocatingly quiet. Yoohyeon lets her leg pump with excess energy until even she can’t stand it, and then she gives into mob mentality and pulls out her phone again.

She clicks on the first social media app she sees.

(She hates social media.)

The first thing that pops up is an unflattering picture of a sleeping Gahyeon, posted from their official band account exactly one minute ago. The caption: a single baby emoji. No signature to let fans know which member posted it. Which means it was either Handong or Yubin, and by quick process of elimination based on the angle of the camera (she peers dramatically down the bus again), Yoohyeon knows not to trust Handong’s innocently unaffected demeanor. Handong’s always been too good at keeping a poker face. Yoohyeon narrows her eyes.

She manages to pass a solid five minutes making up possible theories about Handong’s background, about which the part-time-band-member-full-time-everything-else has always been incredibly vague. It’s actually one of Yoohyeon’s go-to pastimes for when she’s absolutely bored out of her mind and no one wants to _freaking make a sound for once in their lawless lives, like what the heck, not even Sua??_

She swipes up with a thumb, letting the page come to a stop on its own like a roulette wheel. A gossip page article slowly slides into the middle of her screen.

(Yoohyeon has never been lucky.)

_“Dreamcatcher Jiu: Fans Make ‘First Love Smile’ Pictures Go Viral”_

Yubin’s never given one bit of attention to tabloids or opinions disseminated via social media. Yoohyeon might know her other half inside and out, but she still has no idea how Yubin manages — how she doesn’t care. Even Sua, who appears to have no regard for her own image, gives some attention to the gossip and the reviews (although Yoohyeon figures she cares less about what’s actually said about her so long as _something_ is being said). Sua loves the attention. They all do, sort of; all love being under the spotlight — just, when they step off stage, there’s a whole world of feedback that decides if they make it or break it.

Maybe it’s because she has the patience, but Yubin always seems to be unaffected, even when their raggedy band of drop-outs was definitely breaking more than making it. So even though she knows better, considering, Yoohyeon’s always been kind of envious of her best friend.

Yoohyeon has always paid attention. It’s kind of impossible for her to not care. She glances far less theatrically down the bus to where Yubin calmly reads her book, back turned to everyone else.

Chaeyoung runs over a pothole in the road. Yoohyeon’s thumb jerks and taps on the article. She blinks, her attention immediately back to her phone.

Minji smiles up at her in high-definition quality. For a long moment, Yoohyeon can’t tear her eyes away.

(Back in high school, when Yoohyeon fit even less into her lanky limbs and would stick to Yubin’s side to avoid the judgmental cesspool of fellow freshmen, a single sound made its way through the indistinguishable din of the hallways, struck Yoohyeon directly in her inner ear, and landed with a jolt right in her chest. Using her awkward height to her advantage, she desperately swept her wide-eyed gaze around and managed to catch a glimpse of the source just before it was swallowed away into the sea of students.

For half a heartbeat, a bright smile. The corresponding laugh echoed in Yoohyeon’s head like a melody. Right then and there, she vowed to do anything to hear that sound again.

It was then that she started to pay attention. The caring? That was inevitably soon to follow.)

A pop-up ad obscures the billions of pixels that make up the delighted curve of Minji’s eyes just before she breaks out in laughter. Yoohyeon blinks again and clumsily tries to press out of it, only succeeding in opening the comment thread attached to the article.

_“she is so fucking pretty its unreal”_ (Top comment.)

_“@god whats the point of sending an angel w a first love smile if she wont let anyone be her first love ._.“_ (The second.)

_“And if she’s ace”_

_“no way have you seen the way she looks at yoohyeon”_

_“wait im new here, she rly hasnt dated anyone?? looking like that????? wtf”_

_“yea confirmed and she’s like almost 26… it’s always ~I have other things to focus on right now~”_

_“Yeah, yoohyeon’s abs LMFAOOOO”_

(The next five responders, the last with a fan-taken photo of the band during a Sua-hypes-the-audience-to-stall-for-a-dangerously-spilled-beer-clean-up moment. The focus of the grainy picture isn't on the drummer, though, but on the lidded gaze Jiu is sending across stage as Yoohyeon, guitar slung behind her back, wipes sweat from her neck with the hem of her ripped tanktop.)

Angles, lighting, timing; Yoohyeon has obsessively monitored enough recordings of her own performances to know that cameras never exactly capture what was played out live.

(A hundred upvotes on that reply.)

They all flirt on stage; with danger (by being in the same vicinity as Sua), but mostly with each other, because what better way to keep the tension and synergy flowing? If it was anyone else stumbling across this article, or any other two band members in the picture, they’d upvote the comments and send a screenshot to the other with equal parts kissy face and barfing emojis.

(Even after they all became friends and probably far too comfortable with each other, even after they formed the band and started making music they could proudly call their own, there has only ever been one sound that Yoohyeon—)

Her leg stills. The bus has graduated from suffocating to full on strangling in its quietness.

(Minji’s curtain remains closed.)

She swipes wildly again at her screen, praying for a better roulette spin. The gossip site merely clicks on to the next related article, titled _“Siyeon and Her Band: Lead Singer Solo Syndrome?”_

She snorts, feeling a bit foolish for letting such dumb clickbait sites even remotely affect her. Maybe it’s time to stop caring. Or, at least, to stop scrolling.

(Yoohyeon might resemble a puppy in nearly every way, but she is still very much human.)

Three hours later, she finally looks up from her phone, and only because a shrill call-to-arms is bellowed right next to her ear.

“Look alive, all you roguish rockers!”

Yoohyeon flinches hard as Gahyeon breezes past to be the first to set foot in the venue. Equally startled by the younger girl’s unfortunately normal volume and by the fact that they have already reached their next destination without her even realizing, she trips over her own guitar case (that she doesn’t even remember pulling from the bus, like seriously, how did she not even register the chaos that always occurs when the crew has to try and wake Gahyeon up) and fumbles her phone with one hand. Around the fifth second of painful juggling, she resigns herself to yet another cracked phone screen.

There is a soft _clunk_ behind her, and two hands suddenly come up from her side and just barely manage to catch her phone for her.

“You okay?”

Steady hands still her flailing arm by pressing the magically preserved device into her palm. Gentle fingers tap her wrist, making sure she has a solid grip this time, and even though Yoohyeon is no longer in high school and has outgrown most of her awkward knee-jerk reactions, she still finds herself flustered. (At her own clumsiness, of course.)

“Thanks,” she puffs out, and is about to add more when she looks up at Minji’s face.

She expects to see Minji’s familiar expression, one of fond exasperation whenever she has to clean up after Yoohyeon’s clumsiness or Sua’s chaos, of teasing amusement when she pretends she doesn’t hear Gahyeon and Yubin’s deadpan puns or silly 3AM arguments about food preferences from Siyeon and Handong. Maybe it’s because she hasn’t seen Minji all day, but Yoohyeon is thrown by something she can’t quite identify.

(She looks… tired? Distracted? Maybe Yoohyeon is imagining the tightness in the smile lines by her eyes.)

Touring is hard. They’re still a bit new to the game, at least with this modestly increasing level of fame and the expectations of hundreds of fans to meet nearly every night. Tonight might be the last show of this leg of the tour, but they’ve still got another continent to go after the break. It makes sense that they’d be exhausted. Especially Jiu, the unwavering, unofficial leader of the team, whose reassurance and bright presence holds them together through missed notes and poor post-concert decisions.

(They had lost track of time commiserating about their guitar call and response segments after last night’s clean-up, ending their conversation shoulder-to-shoulder, swinging their legs atop the dressing room counter. It was normal, how Minji dropped a warm hand onto Yoohyeon’s knee as she laughed, how Yoohyeon stilled under her touch and only moved when Minji let out a cute gasp at how late it had become, which is the cue for Yoohyeon to help Minji collect the last of everyone’s things and head back out with her to the bus or hotel. It wasn’t exactly normal when Minji shook her head with an easy smile and told her to go on without her, but it’s not like Yoohyeon had the right to be disappointed then, or when Minji drew her bunk curtain shut the next morning without a glance back.)

Minji is allowed to be tired. Yoohyeon has no reason to be concerned.

“Are you?” She blurts, countering Minji’s own question.

Minji’s fingers freeze around her own. An indecipherable look passes over her face before her features settle on amused confusion, and then she smiles wryly.

“Yeah? I’m not the one who nearly lost her phone, favorite guitar, and hearing all in one go just now.”

Teasing, fond. Familiar. Yoohyeon shakes away her misgivings and takes it as her cue to take her hand out of Minji’s and finally lay the internet to rest in her pocket.

“I’m very talented like that,” Yoohyeon weakly deadpans, resuming her previously subconscious trek inside the concert hall. Behind her, she hears Minji chuckle as she picks up the cases she dropped to save Yoohyeon’s phone from destruction.

“Yeah, you are.”

Yoohyeon feels the back of her neck flush. Now this is normal.

They set up for rehearsal. Gahyeon “helps” the stagehands and somehow irreversibly tangles Kei and Tzuyu together in instrument cables for ten minutes, Sua steals Yoohyeon’s lucky pick and almost causes three people to be murdered with a drumstick, Dami continues to read her book through tuning and the entirety of Siyeon and Handong’s customary argument about Handong finally making an appearance center stage; this is all normal, too.

Then rehearsal is over, and they wait for Jiu to hit them with the final sentimental-hyping-up speech before they break to do their own pre-concert thing. Gahyeon pretends to try and sneak off prematurely, and everyone laughs at her pout when Dami silently hauls her back into the circle by the drawstrings of her hoodie. The mirth dies down. All eyes go expectantly to their leader.

Jiu is zoned out, gaze absentmindedly on the upper right side of the stage where her guitar rests in its stand.

(Yoohyeon pays attention to Minji. But Minji pays attention to everyone else, always.)

Siyeon coughs. “Minji, you good?”

Jiu returns to them easily with a small, mischievous smile and a sweep of her arms, effectively passing the hat off to someone else. This could be considered normal as well; the seven take turns giving the pre-concert speech, which varies from a spliced conglomeration of inspirational monologues from superhero movies (Siyeon) to not-so-subtle digs that translate to _please try to be normal tonight_ (Handong) to a full minute of nothing but screaming (Sua). But this is the last performance in this leg of the tour. And Jiu always knows just what to say. It’s one of those unwritten agreements, that Jiu would be the one to give this particular speech.

There is a startled beat, but Gahyeon passes it by with a cheer and a purposefully too-close shove of a microphone under Sua’s nose.

Never one to turn down the spotlight, Sua clears her throat and snatches the mic, posing like a politician for giggles as she comes up with something to say.

“...Listen up, bitches!” is what she settles on. “Who are we?!”

“Dreamcatcher,” Jiu and Siyeon chorus back dutifully.

Sua drops her mic for a moment to glare at the rest of the circle. “I said… _who are we?!”_

“Dreamcatcher!” The others join in with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“That’s right! And what is Dreamcatcher?!”

“A kick-ass, world-touring rock band!” Siyeon offers, earning some whistles of agreement.

Sua nods and points triumphantly at their lead singer. “Exactly! But what makes us different from every other kick-ass, world-touring rock band out there?”

“We’re all gay Korean women?” Gahyeon supplies.

“Wh—no.” Sua frowns, thrown off her trajectory. “I mean, you’re not wrong—”

Handong coughs pointedly.

“Sorry, you’re so right; that’s Dongie erasure.” Gahyeon nods sagely. “We’re different because we have a Handong! No one else has a Handong! ...Right?”

Sua scowls. “We’re different _because..._ we’re here on _our_ terms. We don’t need a fuckin’ record label. We’ve never hired some fuckin’ producer. We’re Dreamcatcher, authentically just us; and no one can tell us shit!”

“Oh. I mean, yeah, but I think we all know the real selling point is that we have Handong. I refuse to believe your homoerotic stage antics bring in the fans.”

Sua rears the microphone back in Gahyeon’s direction.

“I mean yeah, our terms! Whoo!”

Everyone laughs but joins in on her over-the-top cheering, turning it genuine and full of that familiar undercurrent of anticipatory energy before a performance. Sua closes with a “fuck shit up!” and a raising of the mic like a glass for a toast, to which the others reciprocate with water bottles and closed fists.

It doesn’t feel quite like closure. As everyone begins to head off, still whooping in excitement, Yoohyeon trails her own cheer off into Jiu’s trademark closing phrase before she can overthink.

“Rock and roll, baby, c’mon!”

She searches hopefully for Minji’s familiar warm gaze; the one she has whenever she looks around at the members just before shouting the line out, the one that always lingers last of all on Yoohyeon, the one that makes Yoohyeon forget the judgmental glare of cameras and critics for one brief moment of surety.

The one that rests easily over an unchanging smile. The one that fills Yoohyeon’s chest with an echo of her favorite sound.

She doesn’t really have the right to be disappointed.

Still, she stands on the upper right side of the stage beside a lone guitar, and swallows as she watches Minji’s back disappear into the wings. The silence isn't suffocating anymore, but it is still overwhelming.

(Yoohyeon has never been lucky.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote another [thing (if angsty vague superhero apocalypse universes are your thing)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27243046) and honestly I'm not too sure what a consistent writing style is supposed to be, so if future chapters end up more like that work or more like incohesive excerpts of sitcom banter... what is it that weki meki says..... oopsy?
> 
> I'm not entirely sure how frequent updates will be, but thank you for reading, and for such kind feedback!! I'm very awful at responding, but I appreciate it so much :c


	5. Amsterdam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not for the first time, Yubin wishes that everyone else would treat life as simply as it really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by Nothing but Thieves.
> 
> Content Warning for ships that don't actually have sails, mentions of van Gogh's ear, and Somin being vaguely sexy.

_“Berlin… make some noise for Dami!”_

They don’t all have stage names.

Yubin became Dami, because Yoohyeon always thought it’d be cool to have a stage name, but when it came down to first introductions onstage and scribbles of practiced signatures, she couldn’t think of one for herself. Always beside her, Yubin looked over Yoohyeon’s shoulder and picked one of the simplest possibilities from the margins of what was supposed to be their music composition assignment due that night. And from that uneventful high school evening on, whenever music was involved, Yubin was Dami.

Years later, Yoohyeon is still Yoohyeon, and Yubin is still at her side -- just more upstage. Dami finishes a dirty lick on her bass guitar with a smirk of confidence, and the crowd hoots in appreciation. Up front, Yoohyeon turns nearly all the way around to send a playful eye-roll over her right shoulder; just as quickly, she is back to focusing on her own strings, leaving the fans who are close enough to watch their interaction as the only witnesses to Dami’s shrug in response.

Cool, confident, smooth: Dami’s reputation is the same as how she plays. She doesn’t really think of herself in those terms, but it’s what has become expected of her. So she goes with it.

With Yoohyeon’s gaze once again hyper-focused on her own fretboard as the guitars take over the main instrumental melody, Dami’s eyes casually wander the audience.

They land on an amused face. Familiar, more and more so since Amsterdam.

Dami isn't as emotive as the rest of the band members, not bodily dramatic like Sua or Yoohyeon; doesn’t express her emotions in facial quirks like Siyeon or Gahyeon. But as she meets Somin’s stare over the shadowed audience, she can just barely make out the way the other woman coughs out a laugh like she knows exactly what Dami means, even though she hasn’t so much as blinked.

Handong once said it’s just in her eyes. Yubin doesn’t really know what that means. But then, Yubin didn’t ask for an explanation, because that’s not something she does. She takes things as they come. What people offer, what life brings, is up to them. Yoohyeon once described her philosophy: “because there really is no other way to get through a streetfight than to accept the punches and rock and roll with them.” Yubin thinks it’s simpler than that. Things happen. That’s life. Somin once described it as “stupid.”

Remembering that conversation, and the spilled bottle of red wine over white sheets that spawned it, Dami lets out her own chuckle. A sweeping spotlight catches the way Somin’s smile grows bigger in response.

It might be another stray light that flashes into her eyes, but something or other makes Dami avert her gaze to the stagnant shadows stage left.

Even in the dim lighting, Handong’s fiery hair is eye-catching, especially as she ruffles an irritated hand through it before shoving her headphones back on. The look she sends Sua is obvious in meaning: _Stop ad-libbing random screeches into your mic._ Dami almost chuckles again. But then Handong’s attention falls on her, and the urge drops away.

It’s not that Handong’s eyes are scary, or unattractive. Quite the opposite. Just like how Siyeon’s stage glare of concentration is intense enough to have earned her the nickname Wolf, or how Jiu’s eyesmile radiates so much joy it has news articles dedicated to it, it is simply another fact that Handong’s eyes are pretty.

Simple. Life is simple. Facts are simple.

Handong’s eyes are anything but that.

Dami understands, sort of, what she might mean by _it’s just in her eyes_. People are the simplest of all. They make it obvious what they want, what they’re feeling. The playful, hooded suggestion in Somin’s gaze when she sidles up next to Dami in post-concert parties; a desire, an invitation. The soft, lingering looks Yoohyeon can’t help but fix upon Minji; adoration, yearning. Even from Handong, the warmth she pretends to hide when Gahyeon leans on her shoulder, the twinkle there matched in the slight twitch of her lips as she teases Siyeon, are obvious.

But when they land on Yubin, when Yubin, for some reason, always looks up to meet her gaze, they are unreadable. Confusing. A dozen different things held steadily in a measured neutrality. She briefly wonders what Handong reads in her own eyes, but shrugs it off because she knows Handong won’t ever explain.

Not for the first time, Yubin wishes that everyone else would treat life as simply as it really is.

Handong breaks eye contact and slips one headphone off with another irritated flick of her hair. It takes a couple of measures, but Dami realizes the annoyance isn't directed at her, but at Sua again. Even Siyeon turns to arch an eyebrow at her, masking her questioning look-around in her hyped bounces around the stage. It takes another couple of strangely unfamiliar beats in the last chorus of Mayday for Dami to realize that Sua’s drumsticks are a blur beside her. Unconsciously, Dami’s fingers followed along without questioning the unusually fast tempo. Everyone else has adjusted as well, but not without a few backwards glances.

Yoohyeon outright glares; Sua sticks her tongue out at her like a kid. Jiu scans all of their faces, worry easily camouflaged behind a trademark smile. Siyeon lets out a breathy laugh in the instrumental break and turns back with her mic raised, the only one amused as Sua takes them past mere rubato and into near chaos.

Dami already knows how the post-concert argument will go. “You had Yoohyeon screaming ‘Mayday’, did you see how fast her fingers were flying?” Gahyeon will cackle, and then Sua will shrug nonchalantly and say, “it was just double time, or whatever,” and chug the rest of her beer before Yoohyeon charges at her fuming. Sua, like Jiu and Gahyeon, hasn’t ever had official musical training. It’s not a problem with such natural talent and the band’s unmatched synergy, but Yoohyeon is Yoohyeon. Beneath the half-serious anger will be remnants of fizzling panic. Jiu will mediate, Gahyeon and Siyeon will antagonize the situation in their own ways, and Handong will exchange a wry look with Yubin. A familiar look that makes sense. And then it will slide into something that doesn’t.

The song ends just fine, all crashing cymbals and victorious vibrato. The crowd roars in approval, most none the wiser of the simmering tension onstage. Sua leads them into the next song with a perfectly rehearsed beat and an innocently blown kiss towards stage left.

Dami looks again into the audience as they cheer in recognition. The only one who remains unmoving, arms crossed like she is waiting for something, looks right back at her with a suggestion clear in her eyes.

This is their last concert on this leg of the tour. Dami considers.

Nervous flitting catches her attention again, and she glances left to see Gahyeon standing beside Handong, as expected. What isn't as expected is the fact that she has no quirky instrument in her hands, despite this being her infamous Gahyeon Solo that has become such a fan favorite that no one uses the actual title of the song anymore. The original studio version is a twenty-second Jiu guitar solo. One concert, possibly to save Handong from getting bothered to death by a bored Gahyeon in the wings, Jiu leaned into her mic and announced, “make some noise for Gahyeon on harmonica, everybody!” And, flustered and utterly unprepared, Gahyeon leapt out on stage with that week’s instrument of obsession that really she had been learning just to annoy the hell out of the others with, and brought the house down.

From then on, the Gahyeon Solo became a staple of every concert. The little jack-of-all-trades surprises both the audience and her bandmates with all kinds of instruments; the kazoo and cowbell rendition went viral, and the band still has no idea where she procured the saxophone and the viola from. Gahyeon is friends with everyone, so Yubin isn't surprised.

She is surprised, however, when Siyeon announces Gahyeon’s entrance over the chanting of her name, and the young woman shuffles nervously on stage without any of her usual faux-ballet dramatics.

And then she isn't the only surprised one, when instead of whipping out yet another obscure instrument, Gahyeon catches the guitar Jiu shrugs off of her own shoulders and tosses to her with an encouraging nod.

It’s strange, to see one of Jiu’s Fenders in Gahyeon’s hands. Its sleek body somehow looks bigger on hers, and it reminds Yubin oddly of when they first adopted Gahyeon into the band, when she was two inches shorter than Sua and two times more meek.

Things change. People change. Life goes on. Gahyeon’s hands grip the warm neck of the guitar, and all hesitation falls away as she hits her first notes. Dami’s bass thrums steadily behind her. It’s still different from Jiu’s original solo, but Dami thinks it still fits.

The way both Sua and Yoohyeon stutter on their respective instruments makes her sigh inwardly.

She meets Somin’s gaze again, still asking, even though she already knows the answer. Dami nods once; simple, succinct.

The concert ends. She packs up her bass as Siyeon and Gahyeon coerce Sua and Yoohyeon to fight it out in a game of piggy-back chicken, and slips out the back door of the venue without a word. Three blocks of a roundabout way to avoid fans, and Yubin eventually ends up at the hotel.

Black leather and smokey eyeshadow meet her there.

“Hey sexy,” Somin purrs, one hand breaking from her casually seductive pose in the hallway to trail down Yubin’s arm. It travels until it reaches the back pocket of her skinny jeans, out of which Somin plucks her keycard.

Yubin snorts, but follows Somin into her own room.

“No ‘do not disturb’?” The other woman gestures vaguely at the door handle behind them as she immediately makes her way to Yubin’s bed, successfully identifying it as the one neatly made up.

Yubin makes a stop in the kitchenette before joining. “Last concert. Sua’s my roommate. If we’re lucky she might make it back to the bus by tomorrow afternoon. Wine?” She pulls a bottle from a mountain of toiletries and snack wrappers.

“Yes, please.” Somin hums low with delight as Yubin rummages around for a corkscrew. “I thought you didn’t like wine?”

“I don’t. You do.” Giving up on her search amidst Sua’s mess of half-unpacked things strewn about the room, Yubin sinks onto the bed and hands the bottle over.

Somin pretends to swoon. “So thoughtful, despite the shortness of your words. You should really change your stage name to Casanova.” She procurs a swiss army knife from the inside pocket of her jacket, and sets to work on the cork as Yubin turns onto her side to watch. Everything Somin does is confident without being overbearing, like she just knows exactly what she wants and that’s all there is to it. Most find it sexy; Yubin finds it intriguing.

“Why is your stage name Dami, by the way?” Somin pops the cork out and pauses, squinting down at her.

She’s waiting for an answer. Yubin shrugs her free shoulder. “Yoohyeon came up with it. Short. Easy.”

Somin chuckles. “Of course she did.”

Yubin doesn’t know what she means by that, but Somin doesn’t elaborate.

“But why a stage name at all? Who is Dami,” she takes a gulp straight from the bottle and smacks her lips, satisfied, “and who is Yubin?”

Jiu is Jiu on stage and on stage only. Sua is only Bora to those closest to her. Yubin is Dami when music is involved, but since Yoohyeon announced her dream in middle school to be a famous rockstar, music has always been involved.

Handong always calls them by their stage names, Yubin realizes. Even side by side in a quiet recording studio, sipping from the same pot of black tea, the softest she has ever seen those constantly calculating eyes: _“This is beautiful, Dami.”_

“You tell me,” Yubin says, and Somin _tsks_ at the cop-out of an answer. That’s what they’ve built this relationship on, after all. Neither of them mince words. They give straight answers to fleighty questions. Most others are turned off by such bluntness that comes across heavy instead of clear, which is why Yubin prefers to stay quiet; it’s easier, and it makes others have to be clear with their intentions when they approach her.

Somin broke through the gaggle of fangirls whispering about Yubin’s stoic frown in the corner of the Amsterdam afterparty with a “Hey. Do you want to hook up?” and while spending the night with a stranger was more Sua’s thing, Yubin was amused enough to agree. They got to Somin’s hotel room, shed a single layer of clothes, and then Yubin commented on a copy of a Murakami book on Somin’s nightstand. The fire in Somin’s dark eyes merely transmuted into a different interest.

They stayed up all night, discussing surrealism. Somin has since followed the band around Europe, and after every concert, she pulls Yubin away with seduction in the sway of her hips, and they move to a hotel room to talk until dawn.

It’s an unconventional thing. She wouldn’t call it a friendship, or a relationship, really. A kindredness, perhaps. Nothing Yubin is used to, for sure, but the band and the fans tease like it’s something expected. She doesn’t correct their assumptions, because no one asks.

Handong has said nothing, despite this being a direct violation of tour rules. Handong is Handong, but Yubin wonders if she’s the same person in all of the roles she plays.

“Dami is easy, come on.” Somin bites the pass-off anyway and begins to tick off names on her slender fingers, starting with her pinky. “Dami is Flea. Stendhal. Casanova. Harry Potter. Dami is a character, a public figure, something that’s a representation of Yubin.” Her thumb joins the others just so she can grasp the neck of the wine and take another swig. She reads the label on the bottle, mildly impressed, giving Yubin time to consider.

Dami muses. Bassist, literary realist, attractive to many women. She can’t refute the comparisons, exactly.

“Why Harry Potter?”

The grin Somin flashes is cheekily unapologetic. “Orphan trust fund baby living in the closet.”

Yubin doesn’t move, but Somin busts into a cackle at whatever dry emotion she must be glaring at her with.

“If I were closeted, or had any more common sense, I wouldn’t have followed you in Amsterdam,” she deadpans. “How I wish that description was accurate.”

Somin waves a dismissive hand and flops back onto Yubin’s flimsy hotel pillows. “Three point five out of four. That’s gold on a Michelin scale. Now tell me, who is Yubin?”

“You seem to be spot-on with the reviews. You tell me.”

“Lame.” Somin fishes around the sheets for the cork, and flicks it at Yubin’s forehead. “But fine. Tell me who Somin is, then I’ll tell you who Yubin is.”

Yubin doesn’t hesitate. “You’re Paul Gauguin.”

Somin arches an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“You did say you were in Amsterdam for the van Gogh museum.”

“I lied.”

“Quite obviously.”

Somin gestures a cheers with the bottle. “I never want my lies to be believable. So why is Somin Paul last name?”

“Gauguin painted from the imagination. Van Gogh painted from nature. They were friends until they tried to work together in van Gogh’s place. Van Gogh threatened Gauguin with a razor and then cut off his own ear. Gauguin left the country.”

Somin looks displeased. “Lost on me. Jiwoo still has both ears, as far as I know.”

Just as Somin can joke about Yubin’s past, Yubin is familiar with why Somin is actually in Europe. It’s easy to discuss with each other, because neither expect pointless, sympathetic words from the other. Yubin picks up the cork and runs it between the callouses on her plucking fingers.

“She hurt you, feels guilty, and is punishing herself for it. So you left the country.”

“Fair.”

“They never saw each other again.”

“Also fair.” Somin takes a much longer swig, one that slightly smears her dark lipstick.

Yubin waits for her to finish before concluding: “But they kept up correspondence. Gauguin eventually even proposed that they form an art studio together.”

She expects a laugh, but Somin hums thoughtfully, picking at the label with her thumbnail. Perhaps Somin’s situation isn't as simple as she makes it out to be. They lapse into a silence that lasts for a while. It’s not uncomfortable. It just is. Yubin shifts onto her back and tries to make the deadened nerves on her fingers pick up the rough texture of the cork.

Somin eventually speaks up again. “Yubin is the same, you know. Just different.”

“‘The big paradox,’” Yubin tonelessly quotes a line from one of the band’s songs, a knee-jerk habit she has picked up from Gahyeon.

“Quite,” Somin agrees. “Your van Gogh is Yoohyeon. But your leaving the country is staying by her side.”

“I’m not in love with Yoohyeon,” Yubin reminds her; this has been a topic of insistent fascination for Somin, who for some reason requires constant clarification that this fact hasn’t changed since their last rendezvous.

“And maybe I’m not in love with Jiwoo,” Somin sasses, but sighs in acceptance. “Yeah, I know. At first I thought you were. You two really have to stop with the whole ‘she’s my person’ schtick. It makes for cute Instagram selfie captions, but how does that make Jiu feel?”

Yubin blinks up at the ceiling, because she hasn’t ever really thought about it. It’s just a fact, that Yoohyeon is her person, just like it’s a fact that Yoohyeon is hopelessly in love with Minji. “I wouldn’t know.” She really wouldn’t, because she hasn’t asked, and because Minji doesn’t really project any other emotion than a constant cheerfulness. “So why is Yoo my different-but-same van Gogh?”

Somin moves the bottle so it stays perched between her crossed legs. With one hand she counts: “Jiwoo hurt me, she feels guilty, she’s punishing herself for it, so I left. Continued correspondence: an unknown variable.” With the other: “Yoohyeon saved you, you still feel like you owe her, you’re still punishing yourself for it, so you stay. You already built your art studio for her.”

She claps her hands together. Like with everything else she does, this conjecture comes out confidently.

Yubin is still intrigued, and might have been willing to pick apart this theory with her, but the way Somin lifts a corner of her mouth almost looks like sympathy.

She grunts, and changes the subject.

“I finished your book.”

Somin brightens with a sort of childish glee, like sharing a well-known secret. It contrasts starkly with her mature, almost gothic appearance, and Yubin thinks if the two of them weren’t so similar, she might have felt drawn to explore their initial attraction.

“What’d you think?”

Yubin reaches over to grab the book from the nightstand. She swaps it for Somin’s bottle, which she places neatly beside the cork.

Somin flicks through and spies an underline in faint pencil. “ _‘We come from a long line of deviants throughout history all with the same final destination in the celestial order: death.’_ What a pompously beautiful line.”

“You were the one who underlined it.”

“Because I knew you would like it.”

“Sure. I didn’t like the story as a whole, though.”

Somin closes the book and chuckles. “I knew that, too. Even I felt uncomfortable with how deep she delves. The nature of love… good songwriting inspiration, at least. Dami should take notes.”

“Qiu does make better allusions than Somin,” Yubin jokes mildly.

Somin laughs again, and the subject changes, and suddenly the dull bedside clock reads five in the morning. Fumbling sounds and a faint curse come from the door. There is a faint electronic beep, eventually, and Sua stumbles into the room. Neither Somin nor Yubin so much as blink.

“Singnie, I -- you’re not Singnie. You're Yubin. You weren't at the afterparty.” Sua runs an uncoordinated hand through her already mussed hair, and teeters next to Yubin’s bed. She switches her squinting focus from her bandmate to the vaguely familiar stranger. “You’re not Singnie either.”

Somin is amused. “Nope. Nice to meet you. I’m DC’s number one fan.”

Sua eyes her up and down as best as her drunkenness allows her to. “You’re hot. But wrong.” She hiccups. “ _I’m_ DC’s number one fan.” And with that slurred proclamation, she trips over her own suitcase and faceplants thankfully onto her own bed.

Equal parts fondly exasperated and second-handedly embarrassed, Yubin slides off of her bed to tuck the covers neatly over Sua’s sprawled, snoring form. When she turns, Somin has also risen, and is headed to the door with the rest of the wine.

“Are you DC’s number one European fan, or do you happen to have an art studio at home that needs rebuilding?” Yubin asks as she walks her out.

Somin pauses to check herself out in the kitchenette mirror. Once she’s satisfied with her appearance, she winks at Yubin’s reflection, and hums noncommittally. “I have your number. Write a song about crocodiles, and I’ll see about that art studio.”

And with a kiss to Yubin’s cheek, she’s gone.

This leg of the tour is complete. Yubin flops back into bed, like Sua still in her stage clothes, exhausted for different-but-same reasons. A glance at the nightstand leaves her amused. Somin took the bottle, and left behind a new book beside the cork.

She’ll read it, if only in the possibility that Somin will call, and so she can forget about the previous one. Yubin’s allusions are poor as well, it appears. She didn’t like the book, not for its flowery musings or almost tedious melodrama, but because it made her uncomfortable in a way that was different-but-same to how Somin described.

The only comparison her sleepless mind can come up with, the only thing that has made her feel the same way, is a pair of pretty eyes that, both across stage and inches apart, give away nothing.

Dami doesn’t understand it.

She fades off into restless sleep, not knowing if she is uncomfortable simply because she doesn’t understand it, or because she wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the book discussed is Notes of a Crocodile by Qiu Maojin. we love some pretentious art aficionados. apologies if the character interaction was unexpected, but shoutout to kard c:
> 
> I wrote [another superhero thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27931762) (if really bad humor and even more awfully comical suyoo fights are your thing), and if I accidentally publish another super!dc fic instead of updating this... .. .yes.
> 
> thank you for your comments, they really inspire me to keep writing!


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